Wanderlust
by Positively
Summary: Alfred goes to live with a bear on the offchance it helps his ailing family. By night the polar bear is a man named Matthew who shares his bed. When the Troll King kidnaps him, Alfred must journey to a land east of the sun & west of the moon to save him.
1. Chapter 1

**Wanderlust  
><strong>by Positively

**Pairing**: Alfred/Matthew

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**DISCLAIMER**: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. East of the Sun and West of the Moon is some Norwegian fairytale, brought to my attention through Edith Pattou's lovely novel _East_.

This is all **AozoraNoShita**'s fault because she wrote **How Does a Bear Knock on the Door?** Hers is a Romerica retelling of a fairy tale with a talking bear (Snow White and Rose Red), which reminded me of my favorite fairy tale with a talking bear. Only I AmeriCanized it and I'm not as funny.

**Summary: **Arthur's family is in trouble. Alfred is kidnapped by a polar bear on the offchance that it helps somehow. The polar bear is called Kumajirou, but at night he's a man who sleeps in Alfred's bed. His name is Matthew. The Troll King Ivan has a thing for Matthew's skin. To save it, Alfred must journey to an unfindable castle located east of the sun and west of the moon. Alfred/Matthew, some onesided Ivan/Matthew

This is going to be a three-shot, most likely. No bestiality, cross my heart.

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>.<p>

* * *

><p>He strung himself across the harp like a torture instrument, his taut muscles pulled into painfully graceful lines. His head rested against the strings of the upper octave, so that if he were to pluck at a high note the sound would have been muffled and flat. His foot moved the pedal up-down-up-down methodically, a fixed rhythm counterpoint to the graceful artistry of his arms' motion. He considered the anatomy of the instrument: the strings that stretched between the neck and the soundboard, the column that dropped to the floor with a gentle curve much like a bell or heart, the way the body of the harp rested on his knees, and the wing-flares touching his toes, and how could anybody think of this instrument as anything but a living creature?<p>

His hands slowed and finally plucked out the final, slow-moving notes of his improvisation. The music sat in the room, humming.

"Wonderful, Alfred. Do you have a harp at home?"

"No, Mr. Edelstein. I carved a lyre for myself when I was seven, but that's the most musical practice I get. My father says he hasn't got the money to be spending on musical instruments and such frips."

Mr. Edelstein frowned. "Ah, that would explain your tendency to strum. You see, harps are usually plucked between fingers and thumb, but you have an odd way of turning your knuckles outward, and barely touching the strings with your fingertips…strumming, like with a lyre." He circled the instrument to observe Alfred's posture. "We'll have to fix that."

"So, will you consider it, sir?" Alfred asked, bouncing up and down on the bench. "I'll work extra hard, I swear it."

"And your father? Are you quite certain that he will not miss your hands on the farm?"

For the first time, Alfred hesitated. He had just reached his fifteenth birthday, and was therefore expected to help his six brothers with the heavy field work so that their father could retire to the woman-jobs. Alfred, as the youngest son, had previously taken care of milking cows and feeding animals and cooking and mending (a sort of ironic penance and tribute to their mother, who had died giving birth to him).

"Well, you know how big my family is, Mr. Edelstein," he hedged. "I doubt they'll miss me much."

"Very well, Alfred. But remember: I'm only doing this because you have such musical promise. This is a great favor to you and your family."

_I really doubt Father will see it that way._

"I expect you to work for me for four hours a day, five days a week. You will provide your own meals. You may only practice on my harp before or after the shop closes. There will be no hourly wage. You will be paid in lessons and opportunities to practice."

"Yes, sir." Alfred resumed his excited bouncing. He figured he might as well savor his enjoyment while he could. The second his family found out about this, there would be hell to pay.

* * *

><p>This prediction came true that evening after dinner. "Alfred, come here please," Arthur said tiredly.<p>

"Oooooh," chorused Alfred's six older brothers.

"Shut up and get out of my house," their father snapped. Matthias, Anders, Fridrik, Lars, Berwald, and Tino filed out the front door in an orderly line, each turning to the brother behind with a sardonic look. Finally they were alone, and Arthur regarded Alfred silently for an agonizing thirty seconds.

"Why have you done this?"

There was no point in feigning ignorance. "Because I love music!" he burst out, his belligerence a sharp contrast to Arthur's tired defeat. He'd been waiting to explain himself for years, and now that there was a hint of an invitation to do so, he could do nothing but talk. "I'm not going to inherit the farm, and you know that. Matthias is going to own it and keep Anders and possibly Fridrik on as stewards, but the rest of us are going to have to strike out on our own."

Arthur frowned. "Alfred, you know they wouldn't—"

"No, listen! I know that you need our help in the fields, but what are we supposed to do when we get married and move on? Berwald and Tino have been trapped here with dirt and hay while they should have been out learning a trade! What do you expect them to do? Huh?"

"Alfred—"

"And at least there will be something left over for them, but I'm a seventh son, and what on earth am I going to have? Nothing."

"Alfred, please stop yelling."

"And I've been doing women's chores since I was old enough to hold a gods-cursed needle! Is it so wrong for me to have taken the one chance I've ever had to do something I want?"

"No."

Alfred, who had been pacing madly during this tirade, stopped abruptly. "No?" He glanced at his father, who, he noticed for the first time, sat hunched as an old man in his seat. His grizzled face was lined with exhaustion, and his eyes held a curious sympathy.

"No, Alfred. It isn't wrong. I know…I know it isn't exactly fair to you, keeping you in the fields to work for me. If you managed to arrange an apprenticeship for yourself, well, then, I support you. I know that Roderich and Elizaveta have no children. I suppose they'll grant you the shop when they retire?"

"Um, yes, that's the idea, I believe." Alfred personally had no intentions of running a business, but he would allow his father some peace of mind.

* * *

><p>A year passed, and Mr. Edelstein taught Alfred in the ways of the harp. He never managed to undo the damage of years of playing the lyre—"Once a lyrist, always a lyrist"—but in some ways that gave Alfred a stylistic edge. He learned scales, major and minor and chromatic, a cascade of notes that fell on one's ears like a waterfall or summer shower. He learned to read music, though he generally preferred to puzzle a song out for himself, and play it from memory. He had a natural flair for the dramatic, and a tendency towards broken chords and tangled melodies. "Smarmy and over-legato," Mr. Edelstein would harrumph, but Elizaveta, the musicman's wife, always winked and mouthed <em>Jealous<em> behind his back.

The farm, however, had had a rough year. Too much spring rain had blighted the wheat crop, and Arthur barely had enough food for his own family, much less to sell in the market. There were practically no excess funds to buy necessities like fruit, flour, and cloth. The seven brothers and their father grew—or rather shrank—into gaunt frames clothed in shabby rags. Matthias and Arthur spoke of finances in low voices while the other six boys huddled together in front of the hearth. They heard one phrase repeated often: "…can't go on for much longer."

Things became desperate when Tino fell ill.

Alfred took temporary leave from his apprenticeship to help, but it wasn't enough. The season progressed into late autumn, and though Tino was the smallest of the brothers (even slighter than young Alfred), his convalescence was a huge blow to the harvesting process. Arthur had to stay by his bedside during the day, trying to cool his fever and keep him hydrated. Berwald, his fraternal twin, wandered the fields like a lost man. They didn't have enough money for a doctor. They didn't have enough money to hire field hands to help with the harvest.

"If this sickness doesn't lift, he will not survive the winter snows," Matthias whispered to Arthur, who was looking grayer by the day.

That autumn was a cold one, and icy rainstorms dropped out of the perpetually darkened sky. The six brothers lit a fire on nights when the cold became too much to bear, and they lifted Tino out of his bed—my, but he was frightfully thin, even thinner than the others!—and they huddled in a single seething mass, like a many-limbed creature. Tino's skin was damp and feverish. They clung to their brother, unafraid to hold him, though they felt the touch of death in the way his hot paper skin stretched over coat-hanger bone.

On one such night, there came a scratching on the door.

Arthur and his youngest son had been sitting at the table, discussing the future of Alfred's apprenticeship. The son insisted that he wouldn't go back until Tino got better, but Arthur knew that he would be better taken care of in the musicman's home. Elizaveta would certainly feed him out of pity, at least; and though he'd never voice it aloud, a sixteen-year-old boy's appetite was a terrible burden on a starving family. Arthur was about to suggest selling the farm when the sound came.

"I'll go see what it is," Alfred offered. His father opened his mouth to give warning—That sounds like a wild animal, best be careful—but Alfred had already bounded across the room and flung the door wide, ever fearless. The wind and cold rain howled inside, and the flames in the hearth guttered; but not one of the eight men paid it any heed. Instead they turned to stare at the great white bear that had suddenly appeared in the middle of their living room.

It said, in an unbelievably deep voice: "Close the door."

Arthur's six sons in front of the hearth huddled closer together. Tino clutched himself to Berwald's chest; the others gaped silently, as though the cold wind had stolen their voices. Arthur was pinned to his chair with fear.

Alfred walked calmly to the door and shut it.

"Good evening," said the white bear.

There was a silence.

"Uh, same to you," Alfred replied. The rest of his family continued to gape.

The great bear turned to Arthur. "If you give to me your seventh son, I will make you as rich as you are now poor. The boy who lies beside death—" he gestured with a great paw in Tino's direction "—will be healed. Give to me your seventh son, and it shall be so."

Arthur stared in horror at the bear. "What?"

It was a general question, meant to encompass the entirety of the situation: "What's a bear doing in my living room?" and "What do you want with my youngest son?" and "What gives you the power to increase wealth or heal sickness?" and "No, really, what's a bear doing in my living room?" But the bear seemed to think he was hard of hearing, and repeated the offer.

"I will go," Alfred said.

Every soul in the room turned to stare at him. "I will go," Alfred repeated. "I'm the seventh son. This is my decision, not my father's. If it will save my brother's life and my family's finances, then I will go gladly."

"No, Alfred," Arthur said, panicked, suddenly regaining his voice. "You don't have to—I won't sacrifice one son for the sake of—that's a giant _bear_, did you notice?"

"I've always wanted to travel, Father. I want to do this."

"Don't be ridiculous! I won't allow you—"

The bear cut in with a ferocious sound that reverberated off walls and shook bones. (It had actually just been clearing its throat.) "I will return in seven days. By then you will have made a decision." It turned to face the door and stared in consternation for a few moments. Alfred, understanding, stepped forward and turned the doorknob. "Thank you," said the giant bear politely, and vanished into the night.

* * *

><p>Alfred spent that week listening to his father's arguments and researching polar bears.<p>

"Alfred, you will not do this." _The white bear is a solitary wanderer, never moving with a pack or even a mate_. "Your brother would not thank you for it." _He walks on all fours, but when he stands he is nearly ten feet tall._ "And what do you expect it to do with you anyway? Feed you dinner? No, Alfred, _you_ will be the dinner." _His eyes are black. His nose is black. His paws are black and the five claws on each of his paws are black._ "How on earth do you expect it to save your brother and make us wealthy? It's a _bear_." _The rest of him is snow white. _"Will we ever even see you again?" _The white bear has an extra eyelid to protect its eyes from snow glare._ "I will not allow this. I am your father, and you will obey me." _He lives by sense of smell._

"I have lost a wife. I am about to lose a son. Do not make me lose another."

_The white bear has forty two teeth with long canines for piercing flesh._

Berwald said, simply, "Please."

Tino was constantly delirious with fever at this point, and made no contribution to either side of the argument. Matthias, Fridrik, Anders, and Lars remained silent and thoughtful. They were farmers, ignorant of the philosophy of ethics save a vague recognition of the word; but they were humans, and they felt that there was something very wrong about sacrificing one child for the welfare of another.

Then again, here was Tino, languishing in fatal fever, and so bony that he practically clattered when he was moved. And there was Alfred, willing to run off with a talking white bear on the off-chance that it helped somehow.

"Please," Berwald said. His twin, his other half. Alfred didn't blame him.

Finally, Matthias said, "Father, none of us will live much longer without bread to eat. Winter is coming, and if we must sell the farm to pay our debts, we'll die of exposure or starvation. If this bear will really do as he says—and I see no reason to disbelieve a talking bear, because, you know, he talks, and now I'd believe anything—if this bear can really bring us wealth, we'll save eight lives and not just one."

Arthur pressed his face into his hands. "I cannot make this decision."

Alfred groaned in frustration. "It's not yours to make! It's mine! And I will go when the white bear comes for me." He bid goodbye to Roderich and Elizaveta without explanation; he packed a small sack of clothes and concealed on his person a whittling knife. He toiled with his brothers in the field by day and huddled with them before the hearth at night. He wiped Tino's forehead with a damp cloth. He squeezed Berwald's shoulder comfortingly.

And then the week was over, and again came the scratching noise at the door.

"What is your choice?" asked the polar bear, after Alfred had let him inside.

"I will go with you," replied Alfred, in a bold and steady voice. He turned to embrace each of his six brothers, and finally his father.

"This is the right decision, Father. I can feel it. Do I go with your blessing?"

The arms around his shoulders trembled. "This is insane, Alfred."

"No one better for it, then," Alfred replied with a quirk to his smile. He pulled away from his father's embrace and ordered the bear, "Drop to the floor, and I will climb onto your back." Even the bear appeared perplexed by his boldness, but lowered its belly to the cold stone as per instruction. Alfred had just enough time to hug its great sides with his legs and bury his hands in its fur; and then they were bounding across the snow, the wind playing secret music in his ears.

* * *

><p>Alfred had always been considered a bit off. His vibrant personality was something that the people of his village had never encountered; his peculiar sense of humor often fell flat. The townspeople were well immersed in the unpretentious mediocrity of cattle health and traveling merchants and next week's weather, so they didn't quite know how to respond to Alfred's fanciful dreams of travel, or knowledge of foreign politics, or philosophical musings. The ordinariness of his family only emphasized his unlikely beginnings. "There's always a sport," people said of the quirky musician born to a family of seven farmers.<p>

It wasn't just a matter of odd behavior for a farm-boy: in some ways his demeanor was outright inhuman. Alfred seemed immune to self-consciousness and social convention. Nothing surprised or scared him. He loved heights, both physical ones and mental ones. He climbed trees. His head took up permanent residence in the clouds.

He took everything in stride—including journeys made on the backs of polar bears.

"Are you afraid?" it asked.

"No," Alfred replied honestly. He was, however, rather interested in the bear's fur. It was extraordinarily soft and long and warm, so that when he burrowed his arms into it—down to his elbows, it reached—his fingers thawed in just a few moments. Beneath his legs, he could feel the great shifting muscles of the beast, a machine of bone and sinew and raw power. But he was not afraid.

Time warped while he was on the bear's back, stretching and bunching up and tearing at the seams. He felt like the journey had taken a thousand years; he felt like it had passed in an instant. It was very much like looking back on an uneventful year, and being unable to discern whether it had been a long one or a short one. The only sensations he experienced were the shifting motions of the white bear beneath him, and the sharp contrast between its warmth and the cold wind (made all the sharper by their incredible speed). He did not notice the changing between night and day, as his face was buried in the beast's fur for fear of frostbite on his nose and cheekbones.

However much time had passed, the bear eventually slowed at the base of a tall, ice-scabbed mountain. It dropped to the ground, allowing its passenger to dismount. Alfred fell to his knees with a surge of unexpected weakness—probably from lack of food and sleep, though he had no idea of the duration of said deprivation—and the bear shuffled to the face of the mountain. It pressed a huge paw to the cliff face, and instantly a piece of the mountain detached itself from the whole, and swung open like a door.

Alfred had meanwhile managed to pull himself into a standing position (though a new wave of dizziness struck him at the sight of a mountain swinging open). "Lean on my side," the bear rumbled. Alfred did so, apologetically gripping it by the fur of its neck. The bear did not seem to mind too much.

They limped down a dark echoing passageway, which the young man, despite his exhaustion, observed with his characteristic curiosity. Eventually they reached an area that mimicked an entrance hall, and Alfred smelled the most wonderful aroma he'd ever beheld. Absence of food certainly makes the stomach grow fonder, and he had been ill-fed for even longer than the bear-back trip had taken. There was some kind of beef stew simmering over the fireplace, and warm hunks of bread on the table, and a pitcher of golden liquid. Alfred fixed himself a bowl of stew (uncaring that to serve oneself in a guest's home without permission is incredibly gauche) and sat down at the table to stuff his face.

When he had eaten two helpings of the glorious stew, he folded his arms on the table and nested his head in their crook, and fell straight into sleep. He did not notice that the white bear had wandered off.

* * *

><p>Upon waking, Alfred immediately set out to explore the mountain home. He decided that this must be a castle of some nature, as the rooms he passed were numerous and often richly furnished. He had no idea of what a polar bear might want with such a castle, but chose not to dwell; he merely wished to discover. He got himself gloriously lost.<p>

The passageways were made of gray stone, uncarpeted so that his footsteps echoed eerily, as did the crackling of the everlasting torches ensconced on the walls. Alfred knew that they were everlasting because he had sat in front of one for what felt like at least two hours. It did not burn down by any noticeable degree. _Magic_, he thought with wonder, as though the talking bear had not been proof enough. _This castle is magical. And I'm living in it._

It was probably underground, he decided, because the only window he could find was over a platform at the very top of a ridiculously lengthy spiral staircase. It was more of a skylight than a window, really, and all he could see were a few very large blades of grass and the sky. He felt dizzy when he pressed his face against it, leaning over the small platform's railing, knowing that if he fell he would shatter on the stone floor below. His bones would smash like glass. Perhaps break through his skin, and bleed. Perhaps he would die before he could feel it. Perhaps he would not. Alfred leaned out farther.

Back in the lower levels was a huge library, as high-ceilinged and silently sacred as a cathedral, with bookshelves lined against every wall and spread in neat rows across the room. It was eerie and untouchable; Alfred's boisterous nature rebelled against the containment and the silence of books. He moved on and discovered the music rooms, which were much more to his taste.

They were all on the same wing of the castle, or underground labyrinth, or whatever this place was; each instrument was given its own moderately-sized room, carpeted so that the sound would not bounce off the cold stone floor, to echo and tangle with the notes that were to follow. He saw a room of flutes, and a room with a huge piano-forte, and even a room with lyres carved out of types of wood he'd never seen. But he spared little observation for these areas; he was searching for something specific.

In the room closest to the library was a harp.

It was the most beautiful harp he had ever seen, more beautiful than he had even realized instruments could be, so beautiful it put Roderich's to shame. He sat at the bench, a man possessed, and began to play.

And play. And play. The harp sounded even more beautiful than it looked, if that was possible. He strummed and plucked the strings until his fingers bled, until he was once again lightheaded with hunger, until his eyes fluttered with exhaustion; but he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. The music held him hostage, and he loved it anyway, terrible case of captor-love had Alfred, and how appropriate, him captured here in this castle both against his will and by his own request.

A movement from the corner of his eye roused him from his music-trance, and he turned to the doorway to see the white bear sitting on the floor, watching him. Alfred had no idea how long it had been there.

"What's your name?" he asked abruptly. "Where do you come from? Why do you have a castle? What are all these instruments for? Who made my dinner? What do you want with me?"

The polar bear stood and shuffled its four paws shyly. Alfred was rather amazed that an enormous white bear could manage to do anything shyly, but there it was. "You may call me Kumajirou. I had another name once, but I no longer recall it."

"That's sad," Alfred commented blithely. "I'm Alfred. What about everything else? Are you a man or woman?"

"I am neither. I am a polar bear. I was a man, and now I'm a male polar bear. I'm male."

"That's what I asked."

"No, you asked if I was a man, but I'm not a human, which means—never mind." Its—his, apparently—eyes were incredibly expressive, exactly like those of a man, but made all the more haunting by their being set within a beast's face. At the moment, they reflected exasperation. "I have something to give you." He held out in one great furry paw a tiny silver bell, hung on a silver chain.

"What's this for?"

"If you desire anything at all, ring that and I will come," replied the bear.

Alfred rang it.

A silence. Alfred watched the bear expectantly.

"Well?" asked Kumajirou. "I'm right here. What do you need?"

"A nap would be good," Alfred said, slipping the chain over his neck. "Have you got a spare bed or a couch or something?"

The bear beckoned awkwardly. Such human gestures did not befit a beast of his size and shape. They passed the library, and Alfred noticed his companion's longing stare.

"Do you like books?"

"I think I did, back when I could hold them," the bear answered absentmindedly. His eyes were filled with a sadness that defied description. Alfred fancied he could see it in there, folded in on itself, the kind of misery that only got deeper and darker the more it was unraveled. Those eyes were truly haunting.

"Can you remember anything about before? Do you remember a family? A place? What you looked like? Anything?"

"Not really, no. Sometimes…at night…I remember things. In the daytime, I recall the remembrance, but never the memories themselves."

"How long have you been in this castle? Is this a castle? Why is it so big?"

"Do you ever stop asking questions?"

"No, not really," Alfred replied cheerfully.

They passed through the kitchen again, and Alfred's stomach made a loud, hungry noise. They stopped so that he might eat, and then he was led into a large chamber. Alfred collapsed onto the incredibly soft bed, exhausted, facedown on the heavenly pillow. He did not see the torchlight fade.

Sleep had nearly found him when he felt a weight settle in on the other side of the bed. _Must be Lars_, he thought,_ escaping from Matthias the Sleep-Kicker. _He rolled over, trying to get comfortable. It wouldn't do to oversleep again; his father would be furious, and the cows even more so. _They don't milk themselves, Alfred, _Arthur would say…

And then Alfred was wide awake.

He was not at the farmhouse, and that was not his brother who had climbed into bed beside him.

* * *

><p>Alfred stared straight ahead, too afraid to move. Should he attack the intruder? Flee? Shout for help? Ah, the bell!<p>

His hand went to his neck and he flicked the small silver bell, but it made no sound. Frantic, Alfred sat up and tried again; and in so doing, he realized that not even the sheets hissed as he moved. He couldn't hear his own harsh breath, which he knew was coming in gasps. Had he gone deaf? No, he could tell. Some kind of magic had stolen the sound from the room. Alfred, an innately expressive person, was horrified to have the ability to make noise taken from him.

He felt a hand close around his own, still clutching the bell. He gasped noiselessly.

The hand released him, and then Alfred had the sudden impression of space. It was not the sound of the body moving away, obviously; or the sight, because the room had become as dark as pitch; but Alfred's sense of touch remained intact, and there was a rush of cooler air, or a shifting of heat, that suggested sudden loss.

Heart pounding, Alfred lay back down against the pillows. He drifted into a frightened and bewildered sleep.

* * *

><p>The following morning, Alfred was not quite sure that the bed intruder hadn't been a dream. The torches were lit once again, and he was alone in the wide bed. He told himself it was just a nightmare, and didn't believe it for a second.<p>

Breakfast was laid out in the table-room, still warm (with magic! Alfred thought with a little thrill). He ate and explored a bit, discovering a hall with many writing desks and papers and pens, and a room full of maps and globes. This gave him the idea to create his own map of the underground castle, which he decided to begin at once.

He did not begin at once. Instead, he sought out the harp room and played again for hours.

Kumajirou appeared midway through his scales, which were second-nature to Alfred at this point. "Hello," he greeted cheerfully, breezing his way through E Major and segueing gracefully into B.

The bear rumbled vaguely, which Alfred supposed passed for a greeting, and sat heavily upon the floor. "There is sheet music in the cabinet," he said. Alfred did not respond, caught on a peculiar chord in A Sharp Minor.

Kumajirou stood, oddly gentle as always, and managed to open the aforementioned cabinet with his black claws. When he passed the sheet music to Alfred (who had figured out the chord in the meantime), his paw brushed against the soft human hand. And Alfred flashed back to the night before—the hand that had closed over his own; and he knew with unshakable certainty that the man in his bed and the bear were one and the same.

Understanding passed through them as Alfred caught and held Kumajirou's gaze. But they did not acknowledge it verbally. This was a silent magic, meant to be unspoken and unseen.

That night, the torches went out as before. Alfred had thought to keep adding oil the whole night through so that he might see his visitor, but the torches did not seem to require fuel. They burned and ceased to burn by unseen command. When the room was utterly dark, Alfred felt something climb into the bed and pull the blankets up.

He'd almost fallen asleep when he noticed a disturbance in the blankets. There was the slightest motion…tentatively, Alfred reached out across the gap between himself and the man. His hand brushed a shoulder and rested there, confirming his suspicion: the man was shivering. Out of fear? Perhaps cold? If Alfred's gut feeling was correct—if this was the white bear—the lack of fur would make him a little chilly.

Ignoring the acute bizarreness of the whole situation (as was his greatest skill), Alfred scooted closer. He let his hand remain on the other side of the bed, brushing the visitor's skin, offering what comfort he could.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> The themes of the original fairytale included fear of sexuality, old-timey virtues, and female domesticity. As a twenty-first century feminist, I've flipped a lot of morals and meanings on their heads. Note that Alfred agrees to be taken, rather than being sent off with the strange bear involuntarily, as in the original story. Back in the day, Daddy married his daughter off against her will for money. These days daughters _choose_ the disreputable "beasts" who'll take us far away from home, which Daddy doesn't like so much. Expect similar reversals throughout the story. Also, bear puns. Couldn't resist. If you find one, I'll give you a cookie.

A-anybody else cry when they read fairytales? GOD I wish they could be real. I'd go with that bear any day of the goddamn week

Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Wanderlust  
><strong>by Positively

**Pairing**: Alfred/Matthew

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**DISCLAIMER**: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. East of the Sun and West of the Moon is some Norwegian fairytale, brought to my attention through Edith Pattou's lovely novel _East_.

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**A HANDY GUIDE! (Pretty sure only the last two are canon):**  
>Matthias: Denmark<br>Anders: Norway  
>Fridrik: Iceland<br>Lars: Netherlands  
>Berwald: Sweden<br>Tino: Finland

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>The morning after his discovery of the shivering man, Alfred made a point to find more blankets for his bed. His days developed a routine: breakfast, sketch out maps, lunch, harp, talk to the bear, dinner, explore, bed. At night, he grew braver in the darkness. The gap between them seemed to grow smaller with each passing night, so that their shoulders now touched. The man didn't shiver anymore.<p>

Soon they spent as much time in the library together as Alfred did with the harp. Kumajirou loved to hear him read aloud, especially of fairytales and mythology. Alfred, who had never really liked the idea of books, found the act of sharing words actually quite appealing. If his eyes got tired, he would just make up stories, or tell true ones about himself and his brothers. Kumajirou looked wistful a lot, and Alfred began to worry that he was making him sad; but when he got too engrossed in his music and neglected their reading time, Kumajirou would pace impatiently around the room, annoyed, with a put-upon expression (as much as a bear could have one). _Pay attention to me_, his actions demanded.

Alfred also made a daily trip to the single window in the castle. When Kumajirou found out, he made an adorable huffing noise, which was translated as mild disapproval. Alfred didn't know if the bear objected to the danger it presented or the homesickness it suggested, but both were unavoidable. He was gradually beginning to discover that the white bear was kind of an overprotective stick-in-the-mud.

He also shed. Sometimes Alfred saw tufts of translucent fur tumbling around in the corridors, and it made him chuckle.

* * *

><p>At least three months had passed, by Alfred's internal reckoning, when the homesickness became unbearable. He couldn't play the harp, and he found no enjoyment in reading or telling tales. He'd simply collapse on the library's couch, face pressed to the soft red fabric, and try to summon the energy to care about anything. Kumajirou would lie on the floor, head resting on great paws, and make forlorn whuffling noises. "You are…sad?"<p>

Alfred nodded. He wanted to say "I feel dull and broken," but it wasn't worth the energy to open his mouth.

"Your brother is well. The small one, Tino."

"Hrrmmmo," he sighed (_I know_). It had been one of the first things he'd pestered the bear about, back when he cared enough to be curious. Alfred felt the bear staring at him, could nearly feel the bone-deep sadness rolling off him in waves.

"I'm sorry," Kumajirou said.

"Me too."

And then the nightmares began. They were merciless, plotless things, devoid of any concrete events; Alfred woke up thrashing with the impression of terror and loss and horrifying suffocation, only to find that there was not much difference between the sleeping and the waking.

The man beside him sat up, every time, and held Alfred's arms. At first that made things worse, the confinement too much like the nightmares and the man unable to assure him otherwise. But given a few moments, Alfred would calm down, and the man would gently, shyly hold him, and stroke his shoulders comfortingly. The inability to whimper was both a blessing (for his pride) and terrible loss (of his voice and the power it afforded).

But as time passed, they learned of a new medium of expression.

They could not speak, but they communicated with their hands, facing each other in the darkness (though neither could see). Alfred got to know the contours of the man's face, his long nose and high cheekbones and soft, soft skin. His eyes that watered, sometimes, when their fingers and toes brushed together. Alfred grew braver and stroked his neck, fingered his collarbones. His fingers skimmed across shoulders, wrapped around to the back, skipped over shoulderblades and tripped down the knobs of spine.

_Bony_, he mouthed soundlessly, then realized that the man could not see. So he pressed his mouth to the man's shoulder and did it again: _Bony. You're bony_. And the man seemed to get it, because his own fingers slipped to Alfred's ribs and very pointedly counted each individual one.

The nights passed this way, Alfred staying awake with the man as long as possible, inhaling his hair and the heat of his skin. His mood improved slightly with the introduction of novelty, but he knew it was only a temporary fix.

One night, the man's fingers traced something along Alfred's arm:

M-A-T-T-H-E-W

Alfred remembered the bear, months ago, saying that he sometimes remembered things at night. Y-O-U-R-N-A-M-E, Alfred's fingers replied on Matthew's arm. As an afterthought, he added a sloppy question mark.

The man—Matthew—nodded enthusiastically. Alfred felt curls brush against the side of his face. And Alfred mouthed it into the other man's warm shoulder, over and over again: Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. Matthew. Something clicked into place, then, that _There is a name I can attach to this body, to this person. _He was suddenly real in ways that Alfred hadn't truly understood before.

He pressed his palm flat to Matthew's chest. They fell asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

* * *

><p>The two became fluent in each other's body language, and at some point Alfred's nightmares transformed into something of form and method. Here there was ice and silence and loss. Endless searching, painful yearning. It haunted Alfred, seeped into his bones and his waking mind, the sensation of wandering in a silent freezing wasteland where the land and sky blended without horizons, where the cold was sharp as a hatchet. Once again, the waking was not so much different from the sleeping: the castle's quiet clamored around him until he thought it would drive him mad, until he fled to the harp or the bear. He drowned the silence with his own music, or the sound of his own storytelling.<p>

But it wasn't enough. He missed the clattering of seven other dishes at the dinner table, the good-natured scolding of his father, the snoring of his brothers in the night.

And then there was the window. He stayed later and later up in the rafters, a de-winged or otherwise broken bird, nose pressed against the glass in a way that would have been comical had his misery been any less complete and sincere. He stopped eating. He stopped talking with the bear. All that was left was the window by day, and Matthew by night.

Matthew, who breathed like quiet thunder in his ear. Matthew, who brushed his hand along Alfred's back when he thought Alfred was asleep. Matthew, who held him every night when he woke from nightmares.

Matthew, who was always gone by morning's light.

_I wonder what my family is doing. I wonder if they're alright. I wonder if it matters. I wonder what would happen if I never came back._

_I wonder if I will ever go back._

Despair took hold of Alfred like frostbite. It spread like a disease into every thought he entertained, until all his songs were dirges and all his stories were of defeat. The dangerous drop from the skylight to the floor in the cavernous window-room possessed his attention completely, to the point where he could not stop thinking about it. He became very thin.

_What I wouldn't give to see a tree, just a tree, my kingdom for a glimpse of green, some grass, the sky, my god, the sky. To be free, to smell the air, to feel the wind, to see my family. The stars. My brothers. My father._

_I wonder if I will ever go back._

The breaking point came one day—morning, afternoon, evening, it was hard to tell in this place—after Alfred hadn't managed to keep any food down for something like seventy-two hours. He shakily climbed the slender, wrought-iron spiral staircase to the skylight. As usual, he lifted himself precariously onto the railing, calves hooked around the middle bar with his toes just brushing the landing, knees bent in some gross approximation of worship, head turned upwards to the light. It _was_ rather a lot like worship: To yearn pathetically for a paradise just out of sight, and quite out of reach.

_Does it even exist at all?_ he found himself wondering. _What if I go outside, and all that's there is Nothing? _He saw his nightmares, the blank white of snow reflected by the blank white of clouds, a polar land without horizons, the fur of a white bear…

A sharp, unfamiliar fear filled him. What if the nightmares were real? What if Life had forsaken him, left him here to die among stone and snow and cold, dead books? Would it not then be better to die while his fantasies were still alive? Maybe he would be sent to a world of his own choosing…the Hereafter, the Next World, the Other Side. He could make it green and lovely again. He could feel the wind again. Freedom.

Without really thinking about it, or looking down to gauge the fall, he flipped his legs over the railing. His feet dangled out over thin air. _Are you afraid_, the white bear had asked him and, as he lowered himself and prepared to let go, truthfully:

No, he was not afraid.

But just as his fingers were loosening around the cold iron, a roar filled the chamber. Alfred gripped the railing harder in surprise, trying to determine the source of the pounding noise that seemed to shake his very body. Then he realized: the white bear was bounding up the elegant staircase, shaking it all the way.

When Kumajirou reached the landing, he wasted no time in enveloping Alfred in his enormous paws and jerking him back from the deadly fall. They fell backwards together, a blur of pure white and gold, and Alfred's face was pressed uncomfortably close to the snowy fur. If not for the heat of the bear, he might have been inside one of his nightmares: smothered by whiteness.

They sat up and looked at each other. Alfred, exhausted and weak with hunger, could barely focus his eyes.

"You will die if you stay here," Kumajirou rumbled. He phrased it as a statement, and Alfred supposed that it was pretty much a given at this point.

"Yes."

"If I allow you to visit your family…will you return here…with me?"

"Why?"

The bear visibly struggled to reply. "Cannot say," he settled on finally. "I only request."

Life. Hope. The chance of seeing green, and the sky, and his brothers. "How soon can we leave?"

* * *

><p>"You must not…allow yourself to be alone. With your father. He will question you…about me. You must not tell him anything. Please."<p>

"Yes, I know."

"Your word?"

"Upon my word," Alfred replied impatiently. Kumajirou had reiterated this quite often in the past day, as he prepared to make the journey back to Alfred's home. Alfred wasn't really sure why it would be such a disaster if his father knew what was going on, but it didn't really matter. For the first time in weeks—months, even—he had something to look forward to. A reason to wake up and dress and eat and speak. He was invigorated; he was full of life.

Perhaps he should have listened to the bear's warning more seriously. But he was finally himself again, and it didn't seem all that important. What could Arthur do?

Perhaps he should have paid closer attention to Kumajirou himself. He moved more slowly, more heavily; as though he realized what this trip meant. As though he realized the fate he had resigned himself to, in order to save Alfred's life.

When they approached a large, attractive, and unfamiliar farmhouse, Alfred was momentarily confused. "Kumajirou, this isn't my…"

But then he saw Matthias standing on the porch with a rake, frozen in shock. As Alfred dismounted, he saw the rake drop from his brother's hand. At a distance, it was impossible to discern his expression; he tried to imagine joy, but could only see blank shock. His face was a mask, or a snowstorm. Canvas.

Then he jumped into action. "Alfred! _Alfred! _Father, come quick!"

And Alfred sprinted towards this new big house in time to greet the seven men in his life, Father and Matthias and Anders and Lars and Fridrik and Tino and Berwald. They dissolved into a seething mass of happy family.

"Alfred, we thought you'd never come back," Arthur said gruffly, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Alfred noticed that his clothes were far less threadbare than he was used to; in fact, all of them were dressed in the kind of finery that they'd never had before.

"I was beginning to wonder myself, Father. What happened to the old farmhouse?"

"Long story, we'll tell you inside."

Tino smiled shyly at his younger brother, looking rosy and healthy. And that was such a miracle that Alfred decided then and there that his stay with the bear had been the best decision of his life.

Ah, the bear!

"I can't stay long. Kumajirou says I have a month, and then he will return for me…" His family let out a chorus of protest at this, but Alfred tuned them out. He turned to face the bear, who had not moved during the whole scene.

Kumajirou turned around to amble away, but Alfred called, "Wait!"

He bounded down the porch steps and, before even realizing that it was his intention, enveloped the bear in a warm and fluffy embrace. "I'll go back with you, when the month is up. I swear." They made eye contact, and Alfred was struck, as usual, by the humanity in his dark blue eyes. "Matthew," he whispered, without meaning to.

Kumajirou's—Matthew's—eyes widened, and his muscles shuddered a bit. "I swear," Alfred repeated, releasing the bear from his hold. "I swear." Kumajirou regarded him with an unreadable expression.

"We shall see."

He turned around and began to run, a silent white loping thing. Before long he had disappeared, and Alfred's brothers pulled him inside their new home.

"It was just after you left, Alfred, Tino started getting worse. And we didn't know what to do, so Dad—"

"—Father, he put the farm up for sale, thinking we could use whatever money it got us for medicine, but see, the guy who ended up wanting to buy the farm turned out to be—"

"Mama's long lost brother!" (This was chorused by all six brothers.)

"And he recognized us, of course, and wondered why we hadn't asked him for help, but last we'd heard, he was way down south and why should we bother?"

"But anyway, he thought we could come live on this property, farm the land for him, for a small rent."

"And he agreed to find Tino a good doctor."

"And now I'm healthy. And this year has been much kinder to the crops."

"So Kumajirou came through for you," said Alfred smilingly.

Arthur was frowning. "Good fortune came through for us. Sheer blind luck. I hardly think your bear had much to do with it. I've been meaning to ask you, Alfred, you can't really intend to _return_—"

"I have every intention of returning," Alfred replied hotly, eyes blazing. "I will not go back on my word."

They stared each other down for a long moment, like a pair of wolves circling. Arthur looked as though he was about to argue the point, but Fridrik put an arm on his shoulder. "There will be time to discuss it later. Tonight, we celebrate."

* * *

><p>Alfred walked through the village, mildly disoriented. Their new farmhouse was on the opposite side of town as the old house, so he was walking in the exact reverse direction to which he was accustomed.<p>

Their front door was just as Alfred remembered: a friendly, peeling green. A bell sounded as he entered.

"Liz, get that customer, please, I've got…" But Roderich dropped the cake of rosin in his right hand, and barely held on to the violin in his left as he caught sight of Alfred. "Is that…?"

"Alfred!"

Elizaveta ran forward and practically tackled him to the floor.

Neither was very pleased to hear that he would only be staying a month—and Elizaveta was even more incensed when he refused to talk about the whys—but they still insisted that he come and practice his harp as long as he was around.

He started off with some of the tunes that he learned in the castle. His skills were a little rusty thanks to that self-imposed silence in those last miserable weeks; and this harp was startlingly unfamiliar compared to the beautiful golden work of art in Kumajirou's castle. But when he was through Elizaveta wiped tears off on her sleeve, and even Roderich's expression approached worshipful. After a few moments of pointed silence, he stood up and started criticizing Alfred's posture.

It was good to be back, Alfred reflected.

* * *

><p>Alfred didn't really give Kumajirou's warning that much thought. He and his brothers were far too busy reveling in the joy of his return; it felt like nothing could ever go wrong again. He insisted upon helping with the farmwork, though they tried to convince him to stay in bed. But Alfred was through with being indoors. It was inexpressibly wonderful to be outside again with the sun on his skin and the wind in his hair. It was like waking from a winter nap into the lovely spring. A bear awakening from his hibernation.<p>

Sometimes it was tempting to tell his brothers that maybe he wouldn't go back with the bear. But then he remembered that the last night before they had left the castle, Matthew had shivered for the first time since they'd begun to hold each other.

No, Alfred would return with the bear when his month was over.

But Arthur managed to get him alone one evening, when the others were setting the table.

"Tell me about the bear," he demanded, standing in front of the kitchen door.

"His name is Kumajirou. He's big and white. He sheds. It's hard for him to talk. I've told you this already," Alfred replied. "Excuse me."

But Arthur continued to block his exit. "Does he feed you well? You look awfully thin."

"Yes, I usually eat very well in the castle. He took me back here for a break. Because I wasn't eating what he offered." He felt a stab of shame at that—rather immature, a hunger strike.

"And what about sleeping?"

"I sleep fine. Nice comfy bed, and all that."

But Arthur's eyes were narrowed suspiciously, and Alfred was suddenly under the impression that he _knew_, somehow, and deeply disapproved. "Really, Father, can you stand aside? I want to bring the rolls out to the table."

Curse his shaking voice! It seemed to cinch Arthur's suspicions, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Alfred, I don't think you're being entirely truthful with me. Are you?"

"And just why the hell is it any of your business how I sleep? I'm an adult, I'm living on my own, and I can sleep however I damn well please!" It sounded a lot dirtier than it really was.

"How dare you speak to your own father like that? I raised you, and I—"

"_You_ let me go off with a giant bear to save the rest of your family!"

"_I never asked for you to go!_ I was the one begging you _not_ to go! You're the one who's going to go crawling after that monster—"

"Matthew is _not_ a monster!"

There was a moment of silence, like the pause at the end of a prayer, during which Alfred realized his mistake.

"I thought his name was Kumajirou."

Alfred remained stubbornly silent.

"Look, Alfred," Arthur said tiredly, slumping into a chair, "Son. I just want what's best for you. I just want to protect you. If you feel the need to go back with that mon—with that bear…then fine. I don't get it, but fine. But please, let me at least do this one thing to protect you. You're right, I haven't been a very good father. But I worry about you. And I need to know about this Matthew—and where he sleeps."

Alfred was undone by his father's concern, and the story came spilling out of him, like water from a spout. He had gotten exceptionally good at storytelling, come to think of it, thanks to all the time he spent in the library with Kumajirou.

"He casts a spell so that you can't see his face?"

"And no torch will light while he's in the room."

Arthur looked horrified. "Alfred, what if he's a troll?"

"Trolls aren't real, Dad."

"Yes, well, you'd have said the same thing about talking polar bears this time last year, wouldn't you have?"

Alfred shrugged. "Fair enough."

"The tales of trolls say that they love human skin—does he seem to have a preoccupation with yours? And they have magic that can befuddle the senses. Make you blind and deaf and that sort of thing. Listen, I think I have something to help. A flint, that your mother said would catch a fire even in a blizzard. You must use this to light a candle one night, when he comes to join you in bed, and get a glimpse of his face. If he's a troll, you must flee the castle! Or he'll take your skin."

Alfred stowed the flint and wax candle in the bottom of his pack. He would know if Matthew was a troll, wouldn't he?

But he _was_ curious. About his face, what it looked like. It filled him like an obsession, the need to see Matthew's face. He dreamt about it, what he might see if he were to light that candle and look upon his housemate, his bedmate, his heartmate.

* * *

><p>Saying goodbye to his family and friends was harder the second time around, not least because Alfred felt like he had a choice in the matter. The only thing driving him onward was the promise he'd made to Kumajirou—<em>Matthew<em>—that he would go back.

When they saw each other again, Alfred found himself bafflingly drawn forward, without the slightest inclination to stay back with his brothers and father_. You are a mystery I will solve_, he thought quietly at the bear. "I told you that I'd come back," he gloated. Kumajirou rumbled noncommittally, but Alfred liked to think it was a thankful rumble. He climbed onto his great furry back and waved at his family.

He noticed, distinctly, in the instant before they passed out of sight: Arthur gesturing at Alfred's pack, and winking.

* * *

><p>Alfred's resolve to respect Matthew's privacy lasted all of two hours.<p>

At first he had been determined not to muck around with whatever magic the castle employed at night. Kumajirou had warned him not to be alone with Arthur, after all; had he foreseen something like this? But it kept haunting him, the idea of seeing Matthew's face, of being able to look into his eyes and _know, _and it was maddening, Alfred's curiosity.

And what was the worst that could happen?

Alfred was not afraid.

And so that night he hid the candle and flint in the pocket of his robe, and waited for the bed's weight to shift. The deafening silence and pure darkness descended, and Alfred reached out to gather Matthew into his arms. He was shaking again, and much thinner than before.

S-O-R-R-Y, he spelled onto Matthew's arm.

After nearly an hour, once Alfred was sure that his visitor was firmly asleep, he pulled the flint out of his pocket and lit the candle. Holding it carefully aloft, he held it over Matthew's face…

And gasped, and heard his gasp, and knew that something was terribly wrong that the silence was broken.

Matthew was beautiful. The candlelight glowed off his soft, pale skin—human skin—and then his ash-colored lashes were fluttering, and Alfred jerked the candle back. A drop of wax fell on Matthew's shoulder, and that's when his dark blue eyes—identical to the bear's—snapped open.

"No, _Alfred,_" he said sadly. _You great big idiot_ hung in the air between them. "You've chosen to listen to your father?"

"No, I didn't mean—"

"This is my curse: to live as a white bear during the day and a man at night, until I sleep in silence beside a person for one whole year. If that year passes, I will become a human again, and marry the one who lay beside me. If, however, the host should fail to keep the silence, or look upon my face, the enchantment is broken and I must marry the Troll King. If only you had held out another month...but now I must go to the Troll King, and-"

"Let me come with you!" Alfred begged. "This is my fault, I shouldn't have—please, let me—"

"No, you can't. The Troll King lives in a castle that can't be found. I must leave to marry him."

"Tell me where! I'll come for you! I'm not afraid," he insisted, though his voice was choked with sobs.

Matthew's lovely face twisted with disgust. "'East of the sun and west of the moon.' That is where the castle will be."

Desperate, Alfred clutched him by the shoulders. "I swear to come for you. I'll find a way. Matthew…"

And the beautiful prince leaned down and kissed Alfred lightly on the lips. "I appreciate the thought, but I do believe this is goodbye."

He disappeared, silently, in a whirl of snow and wind.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> What would Jesus do if he was attacked by a polar bear? Hint: this is a trick question.

I'm starting to think this will be closer to four or five parts. At least four.

Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

**Wanderlust  
><strong>by Positively

.

**DISCLAIMER**: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. "East of the Sun and West of the Moon" is a Norwegian fairytale, brought to my attention through Edith Pattou's novel _East_. And I've been reading too much of AozoraNoShita's fairy tale satire, because every time I start taking myself seriously I SLIP IN A SILLY PUN OR ANACHRONISM or point out a plothole or something. So…this fic is suddenly a lot less serious than it was before

Last chapter, Alfred used his dad's magic to spy on Matthew at night, cementing the curse, so now Matthew has to go marry the troll king Ivan. His palace is apparently somewhere that's "east of the sun and west of the moon," which, as far as informational directions go, is pretty useless.

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>Alfred woke up with the sun on his face. It took him a few moments to remember why this was an unusual thing, and then a few more to remember why it was terrible.<p>

"Matthew!"

He woke with a level of swiftness he'd never before accomplished, and frantically scanned his surroundings. Apparently he'd been using a beaten gray satchel as a pillow, which he recognized as the bag of belongings he'd brought to the castle all those months ago.

But what castle? There was no trace of it, not anymore. The sun warmed Alfred's face, and the birds chirped blissfully in the background as though there'd never been anything here but grass and trees and earth. But the castle had been inside a mountain. Where had the mountain gone? _There used to be a mountain here_. Alfred ran his hands disbelievingly over dirt and small rocks.

He suddenly realized how very strange this whole year had been.

It might have been minutes or hours he spent stumbling around blindly in the forest, looking for some kind of trace of the bear, a hint of where Matthew had gone. Eventually it became a search for proof of his existence full stop. Proof that Alfred's memories of the past year weren't just the product of a feverdream.

Defeated and utterly lost, Alfred collapsed on the forest floor and wondered which way was home.

* * *

><p>Weeks passed. Alfred picked west, because he had to start somewhere.<p>

Matthew's words had been "You'll find me east of the sun and west of the moon," which Alfred found irritatingly cryptic, even for a magical talking bear-prince. "I mean, would it have killed him to be a little more specific?" he asked a passing squirrel.

The environment was similar enough to home that he thought he might be near his family. Most nights, when he was cold and alone, his resolve to rescue Matthew from the Troll King wavered. Who was to say that they weren't already married? And even if they weren't, what if Alfred never found this unfindable castle? And even if he could, was that really Alfred's problem? He just wanted to see his family again.

And then what. Become a farmer?

No, no. Alfred was meant for adventure. Or meant for Matthew. Or both. Yes, definitely both. And it was his fault Matthew had been kidnapped in the first place. The thought of spending the rest of his life with Matthew—maybe exploring the land or navigating the sea, or maybe just sitting in a library reading to each other for half a century—filled him with a yearning he'd only felt before when looking at a map, or reading a really good book. It left a satisfied taste in the back of his mouth.

By the time he found the cottage in the woods, he was resolved. He would find Matthew or die trying.

* * *

><p>"So you're looking for a polar bear?" the tall man asked skeptically. He was very good a skeptical. He had perfectly arched brows and a long nose to look down. He wore his hair long and grew a scruffy beard that was probably meant to look romantic, but rather suggested indolence and lack of hygiene.<p>

"Well, maybe? At the moment, he's probably a prince. A human one."

"Named Matthew."

"Yes."

"Stolen by the Troll King."

This sure sounded crazy when spoken of aloud. "Yes."

"Then he should have been yours."

"Come again?" Alfred glanced up into the tall man's blue eyes, suddenly sharper than before.

"He should have been yours. You are the one who was supposed to have him. My name is Francis, and I know a little about your prince and the troll who kidnapped him."

"Oh. Well. I guess he…should have been mine. And I his. You know. Us each other's. Um. Can you tell me how to find him?"

Francis looked down at his long white hands. "No. I'm afraid the best I can do is lend you a few things. Come with me."

He walked around to the back of the cottage, wind whipping his wavy hair. The day was dark and cloudy in a way that raised the hairs on the back of Alfred's neck. Significant sky, ominous but exciting. The steely stark gray silence of a journey just begun. Behind the cottage grew what looked to Alfred like a green leafy wall. It was incredible how tall these flowers were, pushed up to the sky, round and yellow like little suns. "This is my garden," Francis said, reaching up to brush a few petals with his fingertips.

"More like an ocean," Alfred murmured in awe. It stretched further than the eye could see, this field of flowers. A maze as wide and sloping and deep as the sea. A gust of wind traveled through the field like a wave, whispering to leaves. Francis remained silent, staring at the darkened sky. Alfred waited for his dramatic pause to end.

Eventually Francis broke off one of the flowers, midway down the stalk, and examined its petals intensely. "This flower will never wither." He broke off two more and handed all three to Alfred. "Take these with you. They may be useful."

Alfred stored them in his satchel, wondering how on earth a few deathless sunflowers would help him find his lost love. Then again, the much sought-after Matthew seemed to be very skilled at getting himself trapped in odd situations. Some troll king wanted to marry him…then he'd somehow ended up as a bear…and to break the curse he needed only to sleep beside a man for a year…but if that man saw his face, he had to go back to the Troll King…? Magical sunflowers were actually pretty boring in the context of Matthew's life. Alfred fell a little more in love every time he thought about it.

"Thank you," he guessed.

"No, I should be thanking you." Francis looked at him solemnly. "I cannot do much else but lend you my horse."

The horse's name was Francois (because his owner was a narcissistic bastard), and Francis said, "Ride to the east, as far as you can go. There you will meet the east wind, and he might be able to help you. Oh, and when you are finished with the horse, he will know to return to me. Good luck."

"I'm going to save him," Alfred declared. "I'm going to rescue Matthew."

Francis shook his head. "You'll get there too late or never."

"Way harsh," Alfred complained as he was borne away on the horse's back.

* * *

><p>"Is it to your liking?"<p>

Matthew said "Yes" with a swiftness that startled him. It was odd to be able to speak so freely again. For the past dozen-odd years, his human voice had been buried deep inside an animal's body; it used to take time to find its way out.

He remembered how deeply it had frustrated him to be so inarticulate around Alfred during the day, and then bound to silence by night. He used to cautiously hope for a time when he could speak as a human with Alfred, a day when he could tell him stories of his travels (how Alfred would have loved them!), and tell him his theories on magic (Alfred…probably would have been bored), and mention that Alfred could be real moron sometimes, and did he know that?

What a masochistic little fantasy. _All for the best_, he told himself bravely. _Time to let go of all that. The Troll King is not so bad._

The king was tall and broad, with sandy hair and skin as cold as the ice of which it was said to be carved. He kept a cold, rough arm over Matthew's shoulder as they toured the palace. Matthew tried to ignore the building sense of claustrophobia that bubbled beneath his ribcage, taking up space and making him short of breath.

A horrifying thought struck him: was this how Alfred had felt as _his_ prisoner?

And what if Matthew was like him and grew so homesick that he would not eat and wasted away? It wasn't as though the Troll King would let him leave this icy palace to visit home for a month. Matthew didn't have a home anymore, and he didn't have Alfred anymore, and how was he supposed to live like this?

Here the whitish-blue ice-walls glowed dimly, as though lit from behind. The ceilings were high and cavernous like the ones in Matthew's mountain-castle, but there were no crackling torches to abate the cold. His breath escaped him in clouds. _Maybe I'll freeze to death before the wedding, _he hoped.

"Here is your room. I would have you in mine, but it is much too cold for a softskin like you."

Matthew sidled out from under the king's heavy arm to inspect the bed.

"There are…so many blankets."

"I was afraid that you would be cold in the night. Does it not please you?" For the first time, Matthew looked up to examine his captor's face. The king was smiling, but his brows were drawn uncertainly. His nose was not nearly so unfortunate as all the old legends about trolls would have one believe.

"Not at all. I mean, yes! I mean, thank you, it's very nice."

The Troll King—he'd called himself Ivan—smiled brightly. "I am glad. Would you like to sleep, or perhaps to eat?"

"I think I'd like to sleep now."

Ivan kept smiling, lingering in the doorway to watch Matthew awkwardly tug off his boots—he was not used to feet and shoes and these scratchy clothes! And he would miss his fur in this palace, to be sure.

The mountain of furs and quilts proved too heavy for him to lift, so he began to peel them back one at a time. "Allow me to help, my prince," Ivan murmured, reaching his arms around to lift the pile easily. His cold body pressed against Matthew's back; he tried not to shiver.

"Thank you."

He wriggled under the covers. Ivan clapped his hands and the walls stopped glowing. The weight of the blankets sat upon Matthew's chest, a cruel reminder of the soft arms he once fell asleep between every night.

With horror, he realized that there were _bear skins_ in here.

Matthew stared at the ceiling and trembled.

* * *

><p>The night before he met the east wind, Alfred dreamed of Matthew.<p>

The dream—memory?—unfolded slowly, soft around the edges, the opposite of vivid. Warmth enfolded Alfred everywhere but on his stinging face. Contrast made the heat that much cozier, like a winter night burrowed in blankets.

There was an arm curled over his side, palm pressed against his spine, rubbing soft circles and counting bones. A memory of Matthew, then! Alfred could almost feel the soft skin in his hands, could almost smell the old books and fur. M-A-T-T-H-E-W. He soaked himself in contained joy and utter satisfaction: because this, yes, this was the way things were meant to be.

He opened his mouth to say so, and the warmth disappeared. _No! _Alfred shouted, but that too was wrong. Matthew, Matthew.

_You will find me too late or never_, a voice whispered in his ear. _I am in every place the searcher has not come. I am in every place that the searcher has left._

_That is almost as useless as "a castle east of the sun and west of the moon," _Alfred tried to say, but the air passed through his throat soundlessly.

When he woke up, a silver-haired man sat across the remains of his fire.

"I'm the East Wind," he said in a bored tone.

"I'm Alfred," Alfred said.

The East Wind's red eyes flashed back and forth between something in his hands and Alfred's face. "Did you ask for me?" He was carving, Alfred realized, a small bear out of ash-wood.

"Yes. I need to find a castle that's east of the sun and west of the moon."

"That doesn't make any directional sense," the East Wind pointed out, gesturing with his carving knife for emphasis.

"I can only agree. But I met a man named Francis who directed me to you."

He smirked. "Well, I am a very knowledgeable entity. I could tell you all about my travels to faraway lands. I could take you to a country where they go naked in the summertime. I could take you to a land where the sun rises at night and sets in the morning. I could show you the tops of mountains so high they touch the stars. But I can't take you to a palace that's east of the sun and west of the moon."

"Please? It's really important."

"Say please all you want, kid," he said, sounding annoyed and a lot less majestic now, "but I have never seen or heard of such a place. I could take you to my brother, though."

"Your brother?"

"Yes, the West Wind. His company is not nearly so pleasant as mine, but maybe he is familiar with your castle-that-cannot-be-found."

And so the East Wind gathered Alfred up on his back and tore across the lands. It was a little like riding Kumajirou's back, but faster and colder. The East Wind had no fur to bury one's face in. And whereas Kumajirou's muscles had jumped and sprang rhythmically with living movement, the East Wind simply glided. Alfred missed Matthew with a force and guilt that burned him from the inside, as though he'd swallowed a piece of fire.

Eventually they came to a stop so suddenly that Alfred flipped over the East Wind's shoulders and landed in an undignified sprawl on the ground.

"Who is this?" asked a sharp voice somewhere above his head. Alfred tried to find his way out from under his own legs.

"Albert or something. He's looking for a castle that is 'east of the sun and west of the moon.' Which, as far as informational directions go, is pretty useless."

"Then you were the one who was supposed to have him." The West Wind's face came into view. His countenance was stern; where his brother was loose and breezy, the West Wind was tight and controlled. Alfred took in his composed appearance for a few seconds before his words registered.

"You know the place?"

"I've heard of it," the West Wind said cautiously. "But I have never flown that far. I have only heard rumors from the North and South."

"Nobody tells me anything," the East Wind complained. He was soundly ignored.

"Please, take me to them. I really must rescue Matthew."

The West Wind crouched so that Alfred could cling to his back.

"Okay, but why are we even helping this kid? What do we care if he finds his prince?" The East Wind and his logic were ignored once again.

When they reached their destination, the West Wind came to a stop a great deal more gradually than his brother had, and helped Alfred climb off his back. "I should warn you. The South Wind…does not like being disturbed."

"No, I'm a really charming guy," Alfred explained. "Nobody can hate me."

"Who the hell is that? What the hell are you doing here? Blast you both! Get off my property! Nobody likes you, you west-blown bastard!" The shouts were punctuated by hot, angry gusts of wind.

"I hope you are right," the West Wind sighed.

* * *

><p>"Just out of curiosity…" Matthew began, seated across from his soon-to-be husband.<p>

"Yes?"

"When is our wedding?"

Another difference between this mystical castle and Matthew's old mystical castle was the help. Everything had seemed to run itself by some magic back in his old home; here, there were servants everywhere. Cooking, cleaning, shrinking away from the king…They rarely met Matthew's eyes. He couldn't discern whether it was fear or pity that made them look away. _Probably pity_, he decided, reflecting on the baskets of warm bread he sometimes found on his pillow. Ivan ate chilled or frozen food exclusively; he either didn't know or didn't care that humans had somewhat different tastes.

Ivan crunched on his frozen fish. "I hope to have a large ceremony. I have invited trolls from all parts of the Ice-skin Kingdom to bear witness, but many will not be able to arrive until midwinter has passed. There will be feasting…"

He continued to blithely describe his plans for their hostage wedding, but Matthew had stopped listening after "midwinter." That meant he had at least two weeks to either escape, kill himself, or…

Or what? Wait for Alfred to come save the day? It couldn't be done, and he'd do better to just forget about it.

But he couldn't.

* * *

><p>"And don't ever let me see your sorry face at my door ever again!" The South Wind disappeared in a swirl of air and leaves.<p>

"Sorry about my brother. He is just so very shy!"

Alfred nodded. "Shy. Yes. Okay."

"Tell me, why have you come here?" The North Wind was surprisingly sweet-faced and space-cased, and Alfred found that he liked him best of the four brothers.

"I'm looking for a castle that can only be found east of the sun and west of the moon."

"Ah. Then he should have been yours."

"That's what they tell me."

He sighed. "I have only seen it once before. I blew an aspen leaf there, just to prove I could! But for many days afterward, I was so exhausted I could not even summon a breeze. It is a long way, and hard."

"I don't care. I'll do anything to find it. If you can't take me there, just tell me how to find it! Please."

"I will take you. But we need to have the whole day before us, or I will tire before the end. You may sleep in my bed, but I'm afraid I have no food."

That night, Alfred dreamed of Matthew again. But he was freezing to the touch, and melted when Alfred tried to warm him. _Too late or never. _Dream-Matthew was always such a _downer. _"You're wrong," he said, and for once his voice emerged loud and clear.

* * *

><p>I DON'T EVEN HAVE AN EXCUSE FOR HOW LONG THIS TOOK<p>

I don't even have an excuse. Massive props to anybody still hanging around. I think there should only be one more chapter after this one? Which will not take eight months. Promise.

Reviews appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Wanderlust  
><strong>by Positively

.

**DISCLAIMER**: Hidekaz Himaruya owns the characters of Axis Powers Hetalia. "East of the Sun and West of the Moon" is a Norwegian fairytale, brought to my attention through Edith Pattou's novel _East_.

Well, here it is! The final chapter. This fic took me way longer than it had any right to, for which I apologize. If you need a refresher: Matthew has been taken by the Troll King to a land that's 'east of the sun and west of the moon.' Their marriage is scheduled for midwinter. The North Wind has agreed to carry Alfred to the Troll King's castle, where he intends to rescue Matthew.

(Note: for fun, read all mention of "trolls" as "internet trolls." I kept accidentally doing this while I was writing. Hilarity ensued.)

.  
>.<p>

* * *

><p>Early the next morning, the North Wind woke Alfred with a gust of breath on his cheek.<p>

"Young man, wake up. We must leave early, or we will not make to the Troll King's castle before nightfall. The cold dark would kill you this close to midwinter."

"Mmmkay," Alfred agreed blearily. They exited the house on foot. Outside, the sky was barely tinged with the gray hint of dawn; still the North Wind warned him that they would have to fly as fast as they could, and a bit faster than that, to make it in time.

"So you know where you're going, right?"

"Yes," agreed the North Wind, squatting to the ground for Alfred to climb onto his back.

"In that case, what does it mean, 'east of the sun and west of the moon'? What direction are you flying in? Are we going north? As far north as can be? Because even the North Pole isn't really—"

At that moment, the North Wind took off from the ground, and could no longer hear nor answer questions.

They flew faster than Alfred had ever gone before, faster than the polar bear and the other three winds combined. It was impossible to guess how much time passed. Alfred suspected that the North Wind moved faster than time itself, that he was going so fast that the sun had stopped in its tracks.

Below them, storms broke out and ripped trees and homes from their roots. The seas roiled and ships wrecked, and the North Wind grew drooping and tired. At one point, he dropped so low to the ground that Alfred's feet brushed the tops of the trees.

"Are you afraid?" asked the North Wind.

As always Alfred replied, "No."

Finally they reached the frozen shores of the troll kingdom, and the North Wind fell wearily to his knees. "I am very tired, young man. I will stay here and rest for a while. Do you see the Troll King's castle?"

"Kind of hard to miss," Alfred admitted, staring north at sweeping walls and towering spires that seemed to pierce the blank grey sky. Unless he was mistaken, the whole thing was carved entirely of ice.

"Then you know what to do. Good luck. Take back what is yours."

Alfred shook his head in consternation. "I don't want to _take_ him. I think everybody's had enough of being taken and stolen and owned. Don't you?"

* * *

><p>Getting into the castle was going to be a bit of a problem, Alfred realized. Its walls <em>were<em>, in fact, made of slick smooth ice. There were a few windows (which were really just holes cut out of the iceberg), but it seemed that the only doors were behind two massive gates of stone. These were probably guarded by trolls or maybe even magic spells. For Matthew's sake, Alfred was going to have to be a little more circumspect than just straight up asking to come in.

Matthew. It had been nearly a month since he'd been taken by the Troll King. What if they were already married? What if Alfred was too late? He needed to think up a plan quickly, before Matthew's prediction came to pass. _You will find me too late or never._

From his hiding spot just beneath one of the castle windows, Alfred could see that a lot of people— trolls?—were entering the castle today. He wasn't sure if this was a normal thing or if they were gathering for something—maybe a wedding—but in any case, he thought he might use it to his advantage.

But how? He drew one of the three sunflowers that Francis had given him from his worn satchel. Supposedly they were going to help in this quest somehow. Maybe he could pretend to be a sunflower vendor or something.

"Hello down there!" called a voice from the window above him.

_Gods curse it. Maybe he's talking to the people coming in through the gate…?_

"Hello, golden-haired man! With the pretty flower!"

Alfred looked up, trying to ignore the growling dread in his stomach. Or maybe that was hunger. He hadn't eaten in a while.

"Your flower is very pretty! I will be down presently!"

And suddenly the tall man—No, Alfred corrected himself, _troll_—was standing right in front of him, as though he'd been there the whole time waiting to be noticed.

"I am Ivan, known as the Troll King. This is my castle you stand beneath."

_This_ was the Troll King? He was broad-shouldered, well-muscled, and stocky despite his impressive height (one that Alfred, at nearly six feet and completely shadowed by the king, could hardly believe). But while his body was a paragon of intimidation, he wore a bright soft smile and a charming scarf. He wasn't yelling at Alfred to go back south (or north or west or east or whatever) where he belonged. He wasn't shouting for guards to come kill the outsider. In fact, his tone was downright accommodating when he asked, "What brings you here, softskin?"

"Um…" Alfred couldn't very well admit that he planned to steal the king's bride beneath his large nose to the _king, _could he? "Well, this flower has very special properties. As you can see, it's still fresh even though I have travelled a great distance to bring it here. In this land, no living thing will grow in the cold and ice. I have brought this flower…to…"

"Sell? I will buy it right now! Name any price."

Alfred thought fast. "I won't sell it for money."

Ivan frowned, looking thoroughly put-out. "Please. I could give you a title, lands, a noble wife."

"What would I want with any of those things? Nothing grows here. It is almost too cold for me to live! I expected too much out of this place. I must return home with this flower…"

"Wait! Please, young softskin. Tell me what you will take for this." The king looked so earnest and heartbroken that Alfred almost felt bad.

"Well, if I try to stay out here in the night, I'll surely die of the cold. Is there a room in your castle that might be warm enough for a human—a softskin—to sleep in?"

King Ivan frowned. "There is one, but my betrothed sleeps there." At the use of the word "betrothed" instead of "husband," Alfred nearly collapsed into a relieved puddle of tears. He tried very hard not to show it.

"But I'm afraid I can't allow you to stay there with him—"

"Then I guess I'll be on my way home," Alfred said sadly, stuffing the sunflower back into his satchel.

Ivan allowed him to walk away for a few terrifying moments, in which Alfred worried that he really was going to freeze to death in the night. But finally he heard Ivan shout, "Fine! I will lead you to my betrothed's chamber tonight, when he is sleeping. You may not touch him or speak to him." Alfred turned to face the king, silently cheering.

A small smile spread across Ivan's face. "If he is hurt, you will die screaming."

"D-duly noted." So maybe the Troll King _was _as scary as the stories made him out to be.

* * *

><p>That night, after Alfred was graciously fed with leftovers from the dinner spread, one of the Troll King's servants found him shivering in the music room (there were a few instruments there, but they had the barely-used look of decoration).<p>

"Are you the softskin flower-vendor from the south? I am to lead you to the room of furs and fires," the young troll told Alfred.

"Thank you. Out of curiosity, how much warmer is this room than the rest of the palace?"

"The king's betrothed seems to like it quite a lot," the servant told him. They crunched along merrily through the halls of ice, and Alfred noted that trolls didn't need to wear shoes. It was certainly a sight to see, all these courtly almost-humans in fine dresses, wandering around barefoot like peasants. "His lips don't get blue in there, the way yours are now."

"Oh. Very good."

He could hardly stand the anticipation of seeing Matthew human again. Would he be angry still? Because Alfred sort of did get them stuck in this mess. And maybe Matthew wouldn't want anything to do with him anymore. That was fair. But would he at least let Alfred jailbreak him? It was only right.

"Here we are. Me and my brothers, Raivis and Eduard, will be staying in the room next door." Alfred knew a threat when he heard one. "Do not hesitate to call us if you need anything."

Alfred pushed with all his weight on the heavy ice door until it swung inward. The chamber was dimly lit by a fire in the "hearth," which was really just a hastily arranged campfire over a pile of stones that prevented the fire from melting the chamber floor. The room was a good bit warmer than what Alfred had been subjected to all day; the walls even glistened a little with icewater. What would really hit the spot were a few blankets and a bedmate…

The bed was as big as the one in Kumajirou's castle and piled high with furs and quilts. And they were stirring faintly.

"Matthew?" Alfred inched closer to the bed. "Matthew, are you awake?"

There came no answer.

"Matthew. Hey, Matthew. Kumajirou?" He shook the lump under the blankets, and when that didn't work, he started trying to peel them away.

When he saw that startlingly beautiful face again, he shrieked a little and dropped the blankets. "Gimme a break, I'm really keyed up right now," he muttered to no one. But Matthew's sleeping face was so peaceful and perfect. It was overwhelming.

"Matthew, wake up."

He pulled the corner of the covers away, and suddenly the reversal of the situation struck him like a ton of ice-bricks to the head. "This is pretty funny, isn't it Matthew? Now it's me sneaking into your bed at night."

No response.

But Matthew was breathing, at least; he wasn't dead, just sleeping. And for some reason he wouldn't wake up. Maybe he was an extremely heavy sleeper? Alfred blinked tears from his eyes and continued to beg Matthew to wake up.

Kind of loudly.

He shook Matthew and cried and called his name, but nothing could rouse him. Eventually exhaustion overtook Alfred, and he fell asleep with his arms around the prince. He dreamt the white cold yearning nightmare, but every time he opened his eyes, Matthew wasn't awake to comfort him.

* * *

><p>At the break of dawn on the following day, King Ivan woke Alfred with a stone-hard ice-cold hand. "Your night is up, softskin," he said quietly. Alfred blearily noted that Matthew was still asleep beside him. He probably hadn't woken up. He probably didn't know Alfred was here to save him.<p>

And how was that going to happen anyway? Alfred realized that he didn't really have a plan for that yet. He spent his day under the window again, plotting and mostly getting nowhere. Just in case Ivan was prowling around, he took out another one of the everlasting sunflowers to play with.

He was not disappointed.

"Softskin!" came the call from the window. "You have another of those flowers? I wish to buy it, too."

"Not for gold or money," Alfred sang.

Ivan scowled. "Surely you would prefer something else to a single night of warmth."

"Well, if you're offering both I'll take it. But living through the night is more important than anything else you could give me."

Of course he agreed again, and again Alfred was led to Matthew's chamber in the night. "Remember," the servant said pointedly, "my brothers and I are in the room next door. If you need anything…"

"Do you have a foghorn?"

"A what?"

"Never mind," Alfred sighed.

For Matthew was sound asleep again, and no amount of shouting, crying, or shaking could wake him. _This must be some kind of foul enchantment, _Alfred realized. Before he drifted off to sleep, he noticed both of the immortal sunflowers in a vase by the bed.

The Troll King was actually really sweet, he thought to himself. Up until the moment Ivan burst in at dawn to drag him out of the bed before Matthew woke up.

The next day passed in exactly the same fashion, with one notable exception:

"What do you mean the wedding is tomorrow?!"

* * *

><p>Matthew woke several hours after dawn, feeling well-rested but melancholy. "Oh, Toris," he sighed to his manservant. "I was having the most wonderful dream about a boy I used to know—he'd snuck into my bed, and he was so warm. He told me he was here to save me."<p>

Toris dropped the breakfast tray.

"N-no need for you to help me, Your Majesty. I can clean it up."

"Oh, don't worry about it."

"You're to marry the king tomorrow, Your Majesty." He smiled good-naturedly up at Matthew. "It isn't proper for you to kneel on the floor—"

"Proper, schmopper. I spent the last hundred years as a giant polar bear, did you know that? I _shed._ And ate raw meat _without silverware_. I haven't acted the proper prince since I was a little boy."

They cleaned in companionable silence for a few moments, before Toris suddenly grabbed Matthew's wrist with one hand and made a shushing motion with the other. "I need to tell you something."

Matthew blinked at him. "Okay."

"That wasn't a dream."

Matthew's heart tripped up and then tripled its speed. "What?"

"There's been a human. He came last night and the night before. My brothers and I could hear him calling your name from the next room. He was trying to wake you up."

"Alfred," he breathed.

"Yes, that was his name." Matthew stared at him with wide eyes, suddenly comprehending. These past two nights, Ivan had given him a draught to "keep out the cold." But in reality it must have been a sleeping potion to make sure that Matthew slept soundly through Alfred's visit! That _bastard._

Though the thing with the sunflowers was really sweet.

"Thank you, Toris," he whispered. "I owe you one."

Tonight he would give his sleeping draught to the floor.

* * *

><p><em>Well, this is it<em>, Alfred thought. _Tomorrow is the wedding, and I don't have a plan to flee with Matthew, and I don't even know if I can wake him up. _As the troll servant led him to Matthew's chamber, he considered the possibility of carrying the sleeping prince over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Could he possibly get away in time?

He wriggled underneath the covers, cold fingers seeking out Matthew's warm stomach. He peeled away furs, needing to see that beautiful face just one more time—

The eyes were open.

He let out a little yelp and jerked back. Before the amused grin on Matthew's face could even halfway form itself, he'd surged forward again to gather him to his chest.

"Matthew, Matthew. Are you really—"

"Shhh." Matthew pulled Alfred closer to his chest. "Gods, but you're cold. Be quiet for now, let's warm you up a little. We can worry about everything else later."

Alfred spluttered, "B-but, Matthew, your wedding, it's tomorrow, we need to get going, we—"

"No, really. Shhh. Didn't I just say shhh? It's the first time I've had the chance to say it to you. I really wish you'd listen."

Alfred took a deep breath and tried to focus on the miraculous fact that Matthew was awake and just a few inches away.

"Alfred. There's nothing we can do about the wedding at this point. It's too late for you to save me. No, stop. Hush. It's not so bad, and King Ivan is actually sweet! Have you seen the sunflowers he bought for me? He seems to genuinely want me to be happy. This isn't as bad as I thought it would be."

"You can't just give up because things could get worse!" Alfred shouted, not caring if the whole castle heard.

"And why not?" Matthew's eyes narrowed. "It's my life and my hand to give as I please, and both of us would be much safer if I just gave in and went through with the wedding. And anyway, this was the contract that my parents agreed to when Ivan cast this spell on me! He would heal my older brother with magic, and if I couldn't manage to sleep in silence beside a stranger for a year, Ivan would take me as his…bride. Groom. Whatever. Backing out now would kind of make us the bad guys."

"I didn't know that," Alfred said sadly. "About your parents."

Matthew looked away, uncomfortable. "Well. It happened. They needed an heir, and I was a weak alternative…the point is, I should marry Ivan. I just should! Why are you so against it?"

"Because_ I_ want to marry you!"

The declaration echoed in the silence for a few moments. A troll coughed in the next room.

"Alfred, I'm really glad you came here." Tears filled Matthew's dark blue eyes, and Alfred knew what he was going to say before he said it. "I'm really glad I got to see you one last time. But you should go."

"No."

"Alfred—"

"What if I told you…" he said slowly, making it up as he went along, "that I have a plan?"

* * *

><p>Dawn, the day of the wedding. King Ivan arrived to escort Alfred out of the bed while Matthew slept soundly on. "This is the last night I will allow this, softskin. Matthew is to marry me this day, and after that his nights belong to me."<p>

"Might I stay and see the wedding?"

Ivan looked him up and down. "Would you not feel underdressed? I ask only because I know that this is a very unpleasant feeling, to be wearing inferior clothes. You may sit in the back of the hall, where many peasants will be dressed like you."

Alfred looked down at his shirt, which happened to be the finest he owned. Peasant?

When the time of the ceremony drew near—it was to be held at midnight—the exhaustion from plotting through most of the previous night had begun to take its toll on Alfred. There was no possible way to be sleepy at a time like this, but he was running on adrenaline and fear. _I need to keep a clear head, _he thought to himself. _Oh look, that troll has twins._

The great hall was an enormous, echoing, multi-storied cavern, carved from ice and snow as was the rest of the castle. There were balconies near the ceiling, ones that reminded him of the place where he used to go to look out the window in Kumajirou's castle.

The ceremony was unlike a human wedding in that both Matthew and Ivan had been standing on the...altar?...for as long as the crowd had been gathered there. One of the heralds cleared his throat to speak, but Matthew quickly cut in.

"Before we begin, I would like to make a request of my husband-to-be." His voice was small and squeaky. Alfred allowed himself a swallow and a hard little smile. _So it begins._

"You may do so," Ivan said, sounding curious but not angry or embarrassed.

"In the land where I was once a prince, my people held one skill in regard above all others." The crowd murmured in confusion. Alfred knew nothing of troll culture, and had no idea whether they would grow angry and violent at the breach in tradition. Matthew hadn't known either; they'd briefly discussed the possibility of a riot, then dismissed it with a mutual shrug.

"This skill was considered to be a measure of one's worth as a person of noble birth, and of desirability," Matthew continued, stepping down off the altar. ("You have to build some conversational momentum," Alfred had told him last night. "You have to ham it up, like a big villain would."

"Are we the villains in this story?" Matthew had wondered.

"I'm sure the trolls will say so.")

"But Matthew," Ivan asked right on cue. "What is this skill you speak of? If you require a demonstration, I will perform to the best of my abilities."

"The skill," Matthew said, turning sharply to face the hall at large, "is music. I would like to hear you play the harp for me."

* * *

><p>A dramatic silence filled the hall. Nobody moved, except for a couple of restless troll-children in the back with Alfred. <em>This is a good sign, <em>he thought to himself.

"Um. Okay."

Matthew deflated a bit. "Thank you for indulging me in this. Toris, could you go fetch a harp for us?"

The young troll crunched down the center aisle. Alfred gave him a wink as he passed.

The crowd murmured in a mix of interest and impatience: many of them, especially the trolls sitting in the back with Alfred, were more excited for the afterfeast than the wedding itself. "Nobody told me there was _music_ involved," muttered the she-troll beside Alfred.

"I wish you had brought this up _before_ the day of our wedding," Ivan sighed to Matthew.

Toris returned, wheeling one of the decorative harps that Alfred had seen once before. It was a heavy, blocky sort of instrument, closer to the models that Roderich sold in his music shop than the elegant one in Matthew's castle. But Alfred's fingers ached to play again; he only hoped that Ivan would not be a skilled player.

"Then I shall begin," Ivan said, looking nervous. He leaned down and whispered something in Matthew's ear; the prince didn't respond or even look at him. _What does that mean?_

Ivan sat gingerly and stared very hard at the strings. Alfred held his breath.

"I do not know how to play this instrument," he admitted finally, when it became obvious that he could not defeat the harp in a staring contest. Defensively, he continued, "It is not considered proper for a king to learn music when he might be learning of diplomacy and domestic affairs."

Matthew affected an over-the-top tragic expression. "This saddens me greatly. There should be music at a softskin's wedding. That is how my people once lived in the green lands. But if there is no one here who can play the harp…"

Alfred stood. "I will play."

The boots he wore marked him for a human, and a huge murmur went up through the room, from the lowest level to the highest balcony, as he crunched to the altar. He shooed away a startled Ivan and primly took his seat.

He was the greatest harpist he knew, better even than Roderich and certainly better than Ivan. There was no doubt that he would impress the audience. But he was going to have to give the greatest performance of his life if he wanted to take back—no, _rescue—_Matthew from this place.

He put his fingers to the strings, closed his eyes, and he was back in Kumajirou's castle, playing for the huge white bear who had saved his sick brother and his starving family, who towered over him apologetically, who saved him from falling, who asked him to read fairytales. And he played for the boy, Matthew, who had been prince of his own kingdom, who was beautiful as a god and cuddlesome as a cat, who slipped into his bed at night and held him as he slept.

And so Alfred played his favorite melody, one of the ones that came from the oak cabinet in Kumajirou's castle. The harp was unfamiliar in his hands and a little out-of-tune, but Alfred breezed through the notes anyway, deciding that he would call his trip-ups "stylistic imperfections."

He began quiet and soft and smooth, then built up to a crescendo, then drew back some, then built up more and more and more and drew back again and again and again, each peak growing louder and more complex than the one before, until his fingers blurred over the soundboard and not a single thought could fit in his head for the music there.

When the end finally came, the last few notes echoed in the hall of ice, seeming to almost soften the hard edges of the cavern. Following that was a full measure of silence.

"This peasant is to be my husband," Matthew declared, his voice loud and certain.

Alfred looked down at his best shirt. _Peasant?_

* * *

><p>A huge roar rose from the crowd of assembled trolls, and Matthew entertained the notion that perhaps he and Alfred should have worried more about the possibility of a troll riot.<p>

"I am sorry, Matthew, but that possibility was not on the table." Ivan's smile was a little strained, as though he didn't suspect his intended of treachery but of stupidity. "The agreement between myself and your parents did not involve a test to prove my worth, or musical skills. I am afraid that his talent has little to do with anything."

"But…I want—"

Ivan gave him an incredulous look. "Do you not recall the circumstances of our betrothal? What you want is regrettably a non-issue."

Alfred jumped up from the bench and put an arm around Matthew. "Look, King Ivan, you seem like a pretty okay guy for a kidnapping monster but—_gods be good!_" This last expletive was a result of the burst of flame that Ivan aimed over Matthew's shoulder.

"He will not be stolen away again," Ivan said dangerously. "This wedding has been decided nearly one hundred years ago, and cemented when you failed to break the curse. The prince will wed me today, and he will live with me until my dying."

"Over my dead body!"

"Alfred! Are you stupid?" Matthew tackled him to the ground before Ivan could make good on Alfred's declaration. "It's over. We lost." A tear dripped down his nose and landed in Alfred's eye. "At least you tried, at least we can both still make it out of this alive. Don't be stupid. I know that's hard for you but—"

"Listen to me, Matthew, you listen hard and well. I'm about to run out of this room, but I'm not done trying, okay? I need you to get out of this room. Do you understand? Run from this castle."

"Alfred—"

"I'm not afraid," Alfred said, pushing Matthew off of his chest and standing up.

"Do your worst, _Your Majesty."_

"Alfred—!"

Ivan gestured at him, wearing a thunderous expression, and more flames shot from his hand. Alfred ducked and heard a huge _hissssss _from behind him: the walls where the fireball struck were melting and steaming.

The few trolls who hadn't already ducked out the back doors began to scream and sprint for the exits. Alfred followed them.

Ivan and Matthew stared expectantly at the door for a full minute in silence.

"Well," said the Troll King happily, "Looks like we can resume the—"

"HEY! UP HERE!"

Alfred was jumping up and down on the highest balcony seats, waving his arms around. Even from a distance of nearly one hundred feet, he thought he could hear the sound of Matthew smacking his forehead.

From the floor, Ivan growled and released another fireball in his direction. It hit the cavernous ceiling with an almighty bang, followed by the hiss and pop of melting ice. Alfred sprinted along the length of the balcony, calling down mostly incomprehensible insults, one of which sounded an awful lot like "popsicle-cock."

"What in all gods' names do you think you're doing?!" Matthew screamed, and Ivan's next shot hit just above the ice balcony.

"Matthew, what did I just tell you?! Out! OUT!" Again and again Ivan cast his magic spells, aiming for Alfred and always just a bit off. Matthew couldn't leave; he needed to stay and help. While Ivan was distracted he could incapacitate him with…with…gods, he could not think for all the sound echoing in here! The room was filled with the hiss of steam and the crackling of ice.

The crackling was growing loud and ominous, and the truth of what was about to happen struck Matthew just a little too late.

He sprinted for the exit, even as he heard the rumble and boom of the icy room collapsing in on itself. The doorway was twenty feet away, ten, five…

And then he heard Alfred's scream as the balcony separated from the wall. But before he could even call his name in despair, a chunk of ice struck him upon the head, and darkness filled his vision.

His last thought was for Alfred, and the library in his old castle, and the peace they shared at least for a moment.

* * *

><p>"Alfred."<p>

Alfred slowly became aware of his surroundings, the way one does after a long and fitful sleep. He was freezing everywhere, in pain almost everywhere, most especially his head and leg. Curiously, he felt the wind on his face, and he wondered how he'd managed to fall asleep in the open. His father would not be impressed.

"Alfred," Matthew choked. "Please wake up."

"Okay," he agreed blearily, and opened his eyes.

Matthew sobbed and clutched him around the waist. He was as cold as Alfred, as cold as ice. "You're an idiot, an idiot, a huge stupid idiot, why the hell did you do that?" he chanted into Alfred's neck. If only he were still a bear. Then they might survive the night.

It was long past midnight, and the ice palace was a ruin around them.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and then, "I think my leg is broken."

"It is," Matthew confirmed without checking.

"Are we going to die here?"

The words spilled from his mouth and hovered like a stain between them. Matthew drew him tighter into his arms, trying to muffle his sniffles unsuccessfully.

"No, of course not," Matthew said when he could speak. "Of course not. We just have to last through tonight. As soon as the sun comes up, we'll be saved."

Alfred's teeth chattered. "Well, at least all the ice is numbing my leg."

"There you go. Always look on the bright side of life. We'll get out of here tomorrow, and—and you can go back home and I can…well, I can do something."

"You can come back with me."

Matthew wriggled closer, drew his head under his chin. "Do you want me to?"

Alfred shoved at him. "I didn't _steal _you from the Troll King. I meant to free you. To make your own decisions. So you can come with me, only if _you _want to."

"Don't be stupid, Alfred."

The starlight struck and scattered off the steam of their breath. "Did you know that tonight is the best night to stargaze? During the whole year? I mean, it's the longest night."

"I'm not sure if it being a long night is such a great thing," Alfred murmured sleepily. Matthew felt his heart sink, told Alfred to flex the toes of his good leg and listen closely.

"Listen. My brother and I used to watch the stars. I always fell asleep first, but Francis—"

"Francis?"

"That was my older brother's name. The one who got sick."

"I thought…I thought you were a prince a hundred years ago. I thought you'd…been stuck as a bear for a long time."

"I was," he said sadly. "My family has been dead for many years, I am sure."

"I met your brother, though. If—if we get rescued, I'll take you to him."

Matthew dashed at the tears before they could freeze his eyes shut. "I know your leg hurts, Alfred, but we need to move. You aren't thinking right. You need to move, or you'll freeze."

"No, you won't," said an angry voice. Matthew tensed, fearing angry trolls, fearing Ivan—though maybe Ivan could make another fireball, Matthew might agree to marry him just for that—

Alfred's eyes widened. "South!"

Matthew struggled into a sitting position, and turned to see four young men standing in an arc. All were dressed inappropriately for the bone-biting cold, but none appeared to suffer for it.

"We've come to help," the pale-haired one said. "North insisted."

* * *

><p>When the four winds dropped them off at Francis' cabin, hair snarled and cheeks chapped, Alfred noticed immediately that there was something off about the place. "He's not here," Alfred said, not really understanding how he knew. "I…he was, though. He gave me those sunflowers, the ones that I used to save you."<p>

Matthew nodded skeptically. After making Alfred a splint and a makeshift crutch, they toured the place. Predictably, they found no one. The sunflower field was nothing but grass.

"Well, that was eerie." Alfred clapped his hands together. "Now what?"

"I'm sure you want to return home, to see your family."

"I can introduce you to my father! And we can all laugh together about how wrong he was, thinking that _you _were the troll in this situation."

Matthew smiled. "That sounds nice. And after that?"

"Adventure," Alfred replied with relish.

"No happily ever after for us?"

"Don't make it into one of your little fairytales," Alfred mocked, chucking him on the shoulder. "But we can stay together forever. If you want to. As long as you agree that I haven't stolen or taken you in any way, shape, or form."

"Afraid I can't agree with that." Matthew heaved a sad sigh. Alfred gulped and prepared his "you're free to go" speech. "See, you've stolen my heart."

"Really," Alfred asked flatly.

"Shut up and kiss me," Matthew growled, and pulled him forward to do just that.

**THE END**

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>This ending is a lot different from the actual fairytale, in which, I quote, "the old troll queen flew into such a rage, she exploded on the spot, and the princess with the long nose after her, and the whole pack of trolls after her - at least I've never heard a word about them since." Like…I don't think so.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did writing it!


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